


Today I Somehow Understand the Reason I Was Born

by whisperedstory



Series: This Life That We've Created [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedstory/pseuds/whisperedstory
Summary: Jaskier unknowingly heals Geralt after he sustains a serious injury. Maybe it's time for Geralt to talk to Jaskier about his elven heritage.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: This Life That We've Created [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737058
Comments: 84
Kudos: 1103





	Today I Somehow Understand the Reason I Was Born

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [dancing_adrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Adrift)!
> 
> Title taken from "Fair" by The Amazing Devil.

Jaskier tips his head back, eyes closed as he lets the sun shine on his face, and smiles.

"Oh, this feels so nice," he murmurs.

Next to him, Geralt scoffs. "It's not like you haven't been outside and seen the sun these past few months," he points out. "And watch where you're going or you'll trip and break your damn neck."

Jaskier opens his eyes again, smile not diminishing. "Oh, you would catch me," he says and moves closer to Geralt's side so he can nudge him. "Admit it, it feels good. It's not the same as going outside for just a little while. I love wintering in Kaer Morhen, I do, but I'm ready to travel again, to be on the road and sing my songs in taverns and watch my witcher slay monsters."

Geralt grunts in reply, keeping his eyes ahead on the trail down the mountain, hand curled around Roach's reins. To Jaskier, it's just rocks and dirt and grass, but Geralt knows each step, each twist and turn they have to take to follow the trail only witchers know. This has been Jaskier's third winter in Kaer Morhen, but he knows he still wouldn't make it up or down the mountains without Geralt.

He takes a look back, at the stone fortress looming behind them. 

"We'll be back next winter," he says quietly.

Geralt turns his head just slightly, an eyebrow raised. "Still not sick of it?"

"Never," Jaskier replies and Geralt hums. 

Truth be told, there are days when Jaskier misses the comforts of Oxenfurt, the busy streets and excited chatter of students that gather in the taverns. Days when it's so cold he huddles under all the furs he can find to keep warm, where he closes his eyes and dreams of being further south, where winters aren't as harsh and snow is rare. But any other places lose their appeal when he thinks about being there for months without Geralt at his side. And he likes Kaer Morhen, likes seeing Eskel and Lambert and Vesemir, listening to their stories and sharing meals in the big hall, likes watching Geralt spar with them and laugh with them. He likes their room, the memories of endless hours spent in bed together, knowing there's nowhere else they need to be. 

Kaer Morhen feels like home now. It's comfort and safety and Geralt.

Maybe, though, they can visit Oxenfurt this spring or summer. Stay there for a little while. He's sure Geralt can find a contract or two while there and Jaskier can visit with friends and peers, maybe give a guest lecture and play in taverns at night, sharing his tales of the White Wolf.

"I know I have to start worrying when you go quiet," Geralt says.

Jaskier laughs quietly and shakes his head. "Just thinking," he says. "About the many adventures that lie ahead of us this year."

"The many ways you will manage to almost get killed or get us chased out of towns."

"Oh, I rarely do that anymore," Jaskier defends himself with a little grin. "And at least life never gets boring with me. Admit it."

"My life was never boring without you either."

"Words hurt, my dear," Jaskier snarks, watching the corners of Geralt's mouth turn up. "And maybe it wasn't boring, but oh must it have been miserable, without the many joys I bring you."

"Hmm."

Jaskier turns his face away so Geralt won't see his pleased smile. He can read Geralt's grunts and hums well enough by now to know that wasn't denial.

*

Some of Jaskier's excitement has waned by the time they finally make camp that first night. The snow has melted and spring is just around the corner, but with the sun setting it's starting to get bitter cold, and after a winter of staying in one place, the day of walking has left him exhausted. His thighs ache and he is sure there are blisters on his feet and the skin on his cheeks and nose feels tight and painful to the touch. The sun might not be very strong yet, but after months spent mostly inside it's enough to have given Jaskier a sunburn.

He helps Geralt gather firewood and then sits with his cloak wrapped around himself as Geralt lights the fire. 

Geralt doesn't look exhausted and his skin is as pale as ever. 

Jaskier tries to be subtle as he digs his fingers into his calves, trying to massage the cramping muscles, but Geralt shoots him a grin.

"I told you to come spar with us more often."

"Oh, yes, I so enjoy getting myself almost killed by a pack of witchers. How stupid of me to reject your offer."

Geralt sits down next to him. "You can hold your own as long as we go easy on you," he argues. "It's important to stay active during the winter."

"Hmm, I think I was plenty active in the confines of our bedroom, darling," Jaskier teases, and Geralt snorts. 

He bats Jaskier's hands away and pulls one leg onto his lap, digging his fingers deep into Jaskier's muscles. Jaskier hisses, but then sighs when Geralt works past the pain.

"I just need a few days to get used to all this walking again."

"Hmm."

Jaskier frowns at Geralt. "I am still in perfect shape," he says with a sniff. "If you're suggesting I have let myself go, perhaps you should find another travel companion to keep you warm at night."

"I didn't say anything," Geralt replies, fingers still working Jaskier's leg without pause.

Jaskier waggles his finger at him. "Implying things is just as hurtful. You think I have put on too much weight," he says dramatically. "My heart is broken, witcher. I will never recover from this."

"You're an idiot."

"And now you insult my intelligence, too," Jaskier cries and presses a hand to his heart.

"I should have left you behind at Kaer Morhen."

"Hmm, perhaps. Surely Vesemir would treat me better," Jaskier mocks and slips his leg out of Geralt's lap, turning slightly to replace it more comfortably with the other. "This one next. And then, perhaps, my thighs. Or my shoulders. They ache too."

Geralt shoots him a look, and Jaskier just smiles sweetly. Geralt sighs but starts massaging Jaskier's leg.

"Unfortunately, I fear Vesemir would not bring me the same pleasures you do," Jaskier admits teasingly and moans quietly when Geralt hits a particularly sore spot. "And he still sometimes looks at me that way."

"What way?" Geralt asks gruffly.

"Oh, you know. Like he is trying to figure me out. If I didn't know better I would think he has never met a human before me," Jaskier says. "But then again, I am an enigma. This much talent and beauty in one, it is quite startling."

"Yes, it's unbelievable," Geralt says dryly. 

Jaskier smirks at him and pats his arm. "It's alright, dear. You're not too bad either," he says. "Now keep massaging. You have a lot of work ahead of yourself if you want me to forgive you for that incredibly insensitive remark about my weight." 

"I never said anything, Jaskier," Geralt huffs with a groan. 

"But you never said I didn't look fat, either," Jaskier points out and laughs at the glare Geralt sends him.

*

The first couple of weeks are always the hardest, the nights cold and their pockets not yet refilled with coin after spending most of what they had on supplies and warm clothes for the winter on their travels to Kaer Morhen months ago. It's gotten easier and easier with each year though—Jaskier has become steadily more well-known and he makes enough coin to set some aside now, have some left for when winter ends and they set out again. 

They still have to live more frugally than Jaskier likes the first weeks, though, looking for contracts and taverns for Jaskier to play to make coin.

The first village they make it to at the foot of the mountains is always the same—it's their last stop when they travel to Kaer Morhen for winter, too. There are only two inns and they always stay in the cheaper one to save coin. Jaskier gets more strange looks here than Geralt—they're used enough to witchers this close to the Blue Mountains that they don't bat an eye at them, even if they keep their distance, and so Jaskier, the human living with the witchers every winter, is the odd one out here.

The innkeeper, in particular, seems to have taken a dislike to Jaskier. She never refuses them a room or food, but she looks at Jaskier with distaste and her replies are even more sparse than Geralt's. Jaskier can guess what she thinks about him and it doesn't bother him too much, mostly because it's probably all true. He's the human who sings the White Wolf's praises across the Continent and spreads his thighs for him at night. Who spends the winter in the company of witchers, in the bed of Geralt of Rivia, instead of among his own kind. 

Jaskier still smiles cheerfully at her and offers polite words. And then in their room, he drags Geralt under the blankets with him and he doesn't try to muffle a single gasp or cry as he spurs Geralt to fuck him harder, deeper, until the bed creaks and thumps against the wall.

Cold and tiredness be damned, Jaskier will do his best to get Geralt naked and into bed, proof to the darn innkeeper that he is as debased as she thinks and he's proud of it. Proud to belong to Geralt, to a witcher, who takes care of his every need in ways everyone else in this crappy little town can probably only dream of.

"You're a menace," Geralt says, curled up around him.

Jaskier hums happily and stretches under the heap of blankets. His neck stings where Geralt bit him and Jaskier knows he will wear his doublet open and the top buttons of his shirt undone when they head down for breakfast in the morning, so everyone who looks at him will see the mark Geralt left.

"One day she'll kick us out," Geralt huffs.

"She needs the coin," Jaskier says dismissively. "If she wants to judge me for who I sleep with, then I will give her something she can really judge me for. I refuse to be ashamed of this." 

"You're always getting us in trouble." 

Jaskier smirks and rolls onto his side, reaching between their bodies. He curls his hand around Geralt's half-hard dick, sticky with oil and come, and strokes him.

"You enjoy this kind of trouble," he murmurs, and Geralt groans in reply and hauls him into another kiss.

*

Jaskier can feel Geralt's eyes on him as he veers off the path. He doesn't comment and Jaskier knows not to stray too far, to stay in Geralt's line of sight if he doesn't want Geralt to get unbearably grumpy and give him the silent treatment for the rest of the day, not even dignifying Jaskier's ramblings with a grunt or hum.

But the first flowers of spring are too tempting for him to ignore. It's been steadily getting warmer and all around them the trees are budding, green mixing in with the brown and gray, and Jaskier knows it will only be a matter of a few weeks now before the world will begin to look lush around them.

He hums to himself as he picks a few flowers and he uses a sturdy blade of grass to tie them together in a small bouquet which he tucks snugly into the buttonhole of his doublet. There's just one flower he leaves out, a lilac crocus that he takes back to Geralt.

"For you, my dear witcher," he says with a flourish, bowing slightly.

"What am I supposed to do with that?" 

Jaskier laughs and reaches up, tucking the flower behind Geralt's ear. "There. Now you're as pretty as me," he says, and Geralt glares at him but leaves the flower where it is, just like he did the first time Jaskier did this.

He goes off to pick some more, ignoring Geralt's huff.

"Jaskier." 

"Just a moment," Jaskier says. "Our trusty steed needs some too." 

He knows he's pushing his luck, but if he takes things too far, annoys Geralt too much, he knows there's a chance it'll just end with Geralt manhandling him against some tree and kissing him to distract him from whatever ridiculous thing he thinks Jaskier is doing, and that's an outcome Jaskier is more than happy to live with. 

"Jaskier," Geralt repeats and there's an edge to his tone now that makes Jaskier pause. "Come back here."

Jaskier straightens, two flowers clutched delicately in his hand. 

Geralt is staring into the forest to his right, a hand halfway raised to his sword. Jaskier hears the snapping of a branch then and he whirls around, pulling his own dagger from his boot.

A woman steps out from between the trees. She's young and beautiful, wearing a simple dress and a heavy cloak, blond curls spilling down over her shoulders, and there's a basket hanging from her left arm. Jaskier relaxes a little, the grip on his dagger only loosening slightly.

She doesn't look surprised to see them, smiling gently. "Oh, don't mind me," she says. "You don't need to draw your sword, witcher." 

"Is that so?" Geralt asks in a huff.

She laughs and her eyes settle on Jaskier. "I'm no threat to you, Geralt of Rivia," she says pointedly, not looking away from Jaskier. She cocks her head to the side a little and a strand of hair slips forward, revealing the tip of a pointy ear. Given Jaskier's very mixed track record with elves, he isn't sure that's reassuring. "You must be the famous bard that travels with the White Wolf. It's a pleasure, Jaskier."

"The pleasure is all mine, my lady," Jaskier replies and takes a couple of steps back. "But I fear my friend and I need to get going. Places to be, people to save and all that."

He feels relief when his feet are back on the well-trodden path and he feels the bulk of Geralt's presence behind him. 

"You don't need to fear me, bard," the woman says, shaking her head with a small laugh. "These flowers. You like them? They are my favorite. The first flowers of spring always feel like balm to my soul after a long, cold winter." 

"They're very pretty," Jaskier agrees. She's still looking at him, not at Geralt, not even for a second, and there's something in her gaze, something knowing and yet curious, that really sets Jaskier on edge.

"We need to get going," Geralt presses, his hand settling warmly on Jaskier's shoulder. Jaskier leans into the touch.

"Good luck on your path, Geralt of Rivia. And Jaskier, Viscount of Lettenhove," she says and laughs again, and Jaskier thinks it sounds like music, echoing through the forest, rustling in the trees and stirring the flowers.

The woman turns and picks her path through the trees again, until she vanishes from sight.

"Well. She wasn't creepy at all," Jaskier mutters. "What was up with the way she kept staring at me?"

"Hmm. Well, you _are_ an enigma," Geralt mocks, and Jaskier hits his chest.

"Funny," he snarks and glances at the woods to their right again. "Let's keep going. Sorry, Roach, I'll pick flowers for you somewhere else later."

*

The sun is low in the sky by the time they finally make camp and Jaskier knows they'll have to work quickly before darkness begins to set in. They could have stopped an hour or two ago, but Geralt kept urging them on and Jaskier for once didn't mind, happy to put more distance between them and the elf in the forest. Something about her had unsettled him.

They work quickly and silently, getting Roach settled before Jaskier gathers twigs and branches and builds a fire while Geralt hunts for food. There's the faint sound of running water nearby and Jaskier waits for Geralt to return with a hare before collecting their waterskins.

"I'll be right back," he says, and Geralt nods curtly.

"Don't walk too far. It's getting dark soon."

"Yes, dear," Jaskier says with a grin and walks off, humming under his breath. He finds a small stream not far from their camp, gurgling along merrily. The water is freezing cold and Jaskier sighs as he refills their waterskins, any hopes of washing off the dust and grime from the road dashed. 

A snap of a twig makes him jump and he casts a glance around, one hand hovering over the hilt of his dagger. Something small and furry scutters between the trees nearby and vanishes into the underbrush, and Jaskier huffs.

"Get it together, Jask," he mutters to himself and quickly finishes filling the second waterskin. He gets up, wiping his wet fingers on his doublet, and then hurries back to their camp.

Geralt has the hare skinned and roasting over the fire when he returns and Jaskier's belly rumbles with hunger. Geralt's bedroll is laid out on the opposite side of the fire, a thick fur laid out on top. Jaskier's own bedroll usually stays packed up these days, only used on the rare occasion that they split up or, even rarer, when Jaskier is upset with Geralt and wants to make a point. 

Neither of them get a lot of rest during those kinds of nights, but Jaskier is nothing if not stubborn and Geralt is awful at apologizing.

Geralt is sitting on the grass, watching the fire, and Jaskier hands him one of the waterskins before settling down next to him, close enough that they're touching.

"Cold?" Geralt guesses before taking a couple of sips.

"Not yet, but I will be once the sun has set," Jaskier says. "I guess you'll have to keep me warm then, witcher." 

"Hmm, if I must," Geralt says, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

"Yes, I fear I must insist, darling," Jaskier teases and leans into Geralt's side. "We'll make it to a town tomorrow, won't we?"

"Yes." 

Geralt turns the stick with the hare around, to cook it evenly, and Jaskier sighs when he sits back again and presses close.

"Do you think she was dangerous?" he asks. He turns his head. His nose brushes against the hinge of Geralt's jaw and he kisses the slightly stubbled skin under his mouth. 

"No," Geralt replies. "You don't have to worry."

"She creeped me out," Jaskier admits. "It really was weird, right, the way she looked at me?" 

"Jaskier," Geralt starts.

"Hmm. What?"

Geralt stays silent for a moment, then he huffs and turns his head, kissing Jaskier's hairline.

"You don't have anything to fear," he says gruffly. "Especially not with me around." 

"I know. You'll always protect me, my darling witcher," Jaskier flirts and flutters his eyelashes at Geralt, who grunts and nudges him with his elbow. 

"That. Or I'll be the one to stab you long before anyone else can get around to it." 

"Hmm, but I do so enjoy it when you stab me with your big and mighty sword, dear," Jaskier replies and Geralt groans.

"How have your lines ever worked on anyone?"

"You tell me," Jaskier teases. 

"It wasn't your lines," Geralt grunts, and Jaskier grins.

"No, it was my pretty face and my unmatched musical talent, wasn't it? You took one look at me and you couldn't help yourself. Refused to let me leave your side after that and insisted that I travel the continent with you." 

"I remember things a little differently." 

Jaskier pats Geralt's arm and kisses his cheek. "That's because you're old. Old people never have the best memory."

Geralt grunts and pulls the stick with the meat off the fire. 

"So, what were you going to say? About the creepy elf. There was something on your mind, right?" Jaskier prods, watching Geralt tear a piece of steaming meat off before handing it to Jaskier. 

"I don't remember," Geralt says. "Guess you have a point about the memory thing." 

*

Despite Geralt's reassurance, Jaskier doesn't sleep well that night. He can't put his finger on why the elf's gaze on him bothered him so much. He's used to people looking at him in all sorts of ways, good and bad. But she looked at him like she knew something he didn't, and Jaskier feels like there's something he's missing. It reminds him of how Vesemir regards him sometimes, that curious, knowing gaze that tugs funnily at Jaskier's gut, makes him want to demand answers to a question he doesn't even know. 

He feels that way tonight, something niggling at his brain that he can't quite grasp, and it makes it impossible for him to settle down and sleep restfully. It keeps Geralt up too—he can't sleep or meditate when Jaskier is this fidgety, tossing and turning and waking up from a light doze repeatedly. 

For once he doesn't complain when they get up at the break of dawn. Geralt doesn't comment on Jaskier's restlessness that night, but Jaskier still feels guilt tug at his stomach.

"Sorry I kept you up," he murmurs when they've finished gathering their things. 

Geralt hums and stops in front of Jaskier. He touches Jaskier's cheek, the feeling of his leather gloves as familiar as that of bare skin, and kisses him. It's soft and slow, drawn-out, and Jaskier slips his arms around Geralt's waist, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. 

He's a little breathless when the kiss ends and he laughs, nipping at Geralt's chin before drawing back. "We might not get an early start after all if you kiss me like that again." 

"Oh?" Geralt says, and there's a glint in his eyes even as his face remains impassive.

Jaskier can't resist and he leans in and steals another kiss, presses himself close into the warmth of Geralt's body. "Let's wait until we're on an actual bed tonight," he says.

Geralt huffs, amused, and he draws Jaskier into another kiss before he nudges him away with firm hands. "Let's get moving," he says, and Jaskier likes that he sounds a little reluctant.

They reach the town by late afternoon. There's nothing interesting on the town's noticeboard and when Geralt asks at the inn if there's a job for him around, the innkeeper shakes his head, but he's happy to let Jaskier play in the tavern attached to the inn that night. 

His performance gathers a decent crowd and there's a group of traveling merchants that is just tipsy enough to be feeling generous. Geralt retires to their room halfway through the evening, meeting Jaskier's gaze and giving him a short nod. Jaskier doesn't linger after his performance either, bidding the crowd good-night with an exaggerated bow before he puts his lute in its case and gathers his coin. He makes a stop at the bar to purchase a bottle of wine, politely brushing off the barmaid's attempt at flirting with him.

Geralt is sitting on the bed, polishing his armor, and he looks up briefly when Jaskier comes in.

"Bought us something," Jaskier says, holding the bottle up with a grin before he sets his lute down carefully in the corner of the room. "You gonna need much longer for that?"

He nods at the armor in Geralt's lap even though Geralt isn't looking at him.

Geralt grunts. "A little bit." 

Jaskier shrugs out of his doublet, folding it neatly and setting it down before taking off his boots. He looks down to make sure the buttons at the top of his thin, gray blouse are undone and then saunters over to the bed with the wine in his hand.

"Are you sure?" he asks lightly, stopping in front of Geralt.

Geralt looks up, the corners of his mouth lifting as his gaze slowly travels down Jaskier's body. "Patience, bard." 

Jaskier sighs dramatically and pulls the stopper from the wine bottle. He takes a couple of sips and then sets the bottle down on the nightstand before crawling onto the bed. He leans against the headboard and stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankle.

"If you'd rather fondle your leather than me," he says mournfully.

"It's important to keep my armor in good shape."

"Yes, yes," Jaskier says dismissively and grabs the bottle. "It's also important to keep your lovely travel companion in good spirits." 

"I fully intend to take care of you before the night ends, too," Geralt reassures him, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jaskier takes another sip and smiles at Geralt's back. "You better. I need proper looking after and care just like your armor and swords," he says. "A lot of stroking and rubbing, too. Some polishing."

"Jaskier."

"Yes, dear?" Jaskier asks with a grin. 

"Let me work in peace and I'll be done quicker." 

Jaskier sighs loudly. "I should have found myself a witcher who appreciates the thrilling entertainment I offer," he says. "Someone who listens when I talk and is interested and laughs at my jokes." 

Geralt hums.

Jaskier drinks some more wine. "Someone like Eskel, perhaps. He likes it when I tell him stories, you know."

Geralt goes still and makes a noise that sounds like a growl. Jaskier bites back a grin.

"It's only been a few weeks, but I miss him already," he adds wistfully.

Geralt gets up, shoulders stiff, and Jaskier watches him go put his armor down with the rest of his things before he returns to the bed, and Jaskier realizes maybe he made a mistake, pushed too far, when he finds his expression unreadable, his eyes shuttered. 

"Geralt," he starts.

Geralt grunts and kneels on the bed, swinging a leg over Jaskier's to straddle him. Jaskier tips his head up and Geralt takes his face in his hands, not exactly gentle, and kisses him. It's deep and bruising and demanding, _desperate_ , and Jaskier lets it go on for entirely too long because it feels good, because he _loves_ kissing Geralt.

Finally, though, he puts his free hand on Geralt's chest and pushes him away. Geralt shifts back, still looking painfully closed-off, and Jaskier sits up straighter with a sigh. 

"You idiot," he says fondly and slips his hand up to the side of Geralt's neck. "I was joking, you know that, right?"

"Yes," Geralt lies, voice pressed. "Why would I fucking care?"

"Oh, but you do," Jaskier says and kisses the corner of Geralt's mouth. "I have a witcher. I have no need for another." "Hmm."

Jaskier smiles and nudges the bottle of wine against Geralt's chest. "Drink. Relax," he says, and when Geralt takes the bottle from him, he wraps his now free hand around Geralt's waist. He nuzzles the hinge of his jaw as Geralt takes a drink, kisses the side of his neck. 

"I love you," he murmurs. 

Geralt relaxes a little and he leans to the side to put the bottle down before cupping the side of Jaskier's head, shifting so they're looking at each other. His expression has, finally, softened. 

"You're not funny, Jaskier," he murmurs.

"No, I'm not," Jaskier agrees apologetically. "But, in my defense, it's a bit hot when you get jealous." 

"I don't get jealous," Geralt replies gruffly and rests his forehead against Jaskier's. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, I must be confusing you with the other gorgeous, white-haired witcher I travel with." 

"I thought we agreed on no other witchers at your side."

Jaskier licks his lips and tips his head back, grinning. "That was almost humorous, Geralt. I'm impressed." 

"I'll show you impressed," Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier's gaze drops to his mouth.

"Please do," he says, and Geralt tugs him forward into a kiss. He tastes like the wine, rich and sinful, and Jaskier moans into it.

Geralt's fingers slip down his neck to the open collar of Jaskier's shirt, slipping under the thin fabric to stroke over bare skin before he tugs at the collar. "Off," he says gruffly, and Jaskier pulls back and complies, quickly tugging the shirt off and tossing it aside. 

Geralt pushes him flat onto the bed with his hands on Jaskier's shoulders and follows him down. Jaskier slides his fingers into Geralt's hair, tangles them in soft white strands as Geralt kisses him until he's breathless and his cock is achingly hard. 

He moves down Jaskier's body then, kissing and biting and licking, drawing soft moans and gasps from Jaskier as his hands work open the laces of his trousers and divest him of the last of his garments. 

"Not fair," Jaskier complains as he lies naked under Geralt, squirming as warm, callused hands stroke from his hips down to his knees.

"Too bad you're not in charge," Geralt murmurs. He curls his hands around Jaskier's knees, guiding them apart as he kneels between them, and then runs his hands up the insides of Jaskier's thighs. Jaskier shivers.

"I'm always in charge," he argues. 

Geralt looks at him, an eyebrow quirked up. "Are you?" he asks. He rubs the sensitive skin where Jaskier's right thigh meets his groin with his thumb and then slips it between his legs, over the spot behind Jaskier's balls and further back. 

Jaskier thumps his head down onto the pillow, his breath stuttering. "Geralt." 

"Hmm?"

Jaskier splays his legs wider, puts his feet onto the mattress to arch up into the touch. "Please." 

"Please what?" Geralt teases, pressing his thumb against Jaskier's entrance. 

"Oh fuck," Jaskier groans and covers his eyes with his forearm. " _Please_ fuck me."

Geralt's touch vanishes and Jaskier lifts his arm, watching Geralt pull away. "Geralt?" he asks, not proud at all of the desperate, panicked tone of his voice.

"I'm getting some oil," Geralt says, sounding amused, and Jaskier hums and relaxes a little. In the dim light of the candles he watches Geralt cross the small room and crouch down to root around in their packs. He comes back with a vial which he drops down onto the bed before he starts pulling off his clothes. 

Jaskier pushes himself up onto his elbows and watches, arousal hot and sharp in his belly. Geralt doesn't make a show out of undressing, the way Jaskier would. He just strips down quickly and efficiently, and it still makes Jaskier's heart thunder in his chest. He'll never get tired of watching Geralt; the thick, strong muscles; the scars that mar his skin, telling stories of his heroics; the flushed cock, thick and hard, straining against his belly.

Jaskier swallows. He pushes himself up when Geralt kneels between his legs again, running his hands up his arms and pressing his mouth to his chest. "You're so beautiful, darling," he murmurs. 

Geralt grunts in reply, and Jaskier knows he never quite believes him when he says it. He sighs into Geralt's skin, his mouth following the line of a scar that runs up to his shoulder. 

Geralt runs his hand through Jaskier's hair, tugging, pulling his head up and pressing his lips to Jaskier's.

"Lay down on your stomach," he says, and Jaskier steals another kiss before he complies.

He arranges himself on the bed on his belly, legs spread around Geralt's knees, and arches with a soft moan when Geralt runs his hands down his sides, stopping at his hips, thumbs digging into his cheeks. 

Geralt makes a quiet noise and leans over him. He kisses Jaskier's nape, the slope of his neck, before kissing a trail down Jaskier's spine. He stops at the curve of his ass, chin digging into the cleft, and Jaskier's breath hitches. He grinds his cock down into the mattress, desperate for some friction, and Geralt nips at his skin in silent admonishment.

"Get on with it then," Jaskier says and feels Geralt's quiet laugh against his skin.

"Hmm, not so in charge after all, huh?" he asks, mouth moving up again, placing kisses to the small of Jaskier's back.

"Geralt," Jaskier whimpers.

Geralt squeezes his cheeks with both hands and then lets go. Jaskier exhales in relief when he hears the vial being uncorked with a soft _pop_. He jumps a little when Geralt trickles some of the cool, thick liquid down the cleft of his ass.

"You—" he starts and breaks off into a moan when Geralt follows the path with his fingers, down to his hole. He rubs over it, spreads the slick there, and then presses in with one finger. 

"Gods," Jaskier groans and spreads his legs wider. Geralt's finger is thick, pushing in and out, a little deeper each time, and Jaskier makes a quiet, desperate noise when Geralt nudges a second finger in alongside the first soon after. His breath is hot and damp on Jaskier's back, placing kisses onto skin at random, and Jaskier presses his forehead into the pillow, clenches his fingers in fabric.

"Good?" Geralt asks when Jaskier starts rocking back, fucking himself on his fingers, and Jaskier can only whimper in reply.

"Want another?" Geralt asks, and Jaskier feels a third finger press against his rim, but not yet pushing in.

"Yes," Jaskier begs quietly, head spinning.

Geralt shifts and pulls his fingers out, adding more oil before he comes back with three. Jaskier bites his lip hard enough to hurt, the stretch feeling amazing. Geralt hushes him and works him open patiently, and every time his fingers find Jaskier's prostate, Jaskier squirms and moans. There's a wet spot forming under him just from how much he's already leaking precome, and he feels breathless and desperate and on edge. 

"Please," he begs quietly.

"Shh," Geralt murmurs, but he pulls his fingers free. He grabs Jaskier by the hips, one hand slippery with oil, and tugs him up. Jaskier gets his knees under him, ass up in the air and chest pressed down into the pillows.

"Fuck me. Fuck, Geralt, fuck me already," he pants, and then groans deeply when he feels Geralt's thick cock, slick with oil, nudge between his cheeks. The head catches against Jaskier's rim and then Geralt presses forward.

Jaskier feels like the air is punched out of him as Geralt sinks in, stretching him wide. 

"Gods," he groans, and Geralt halts, gives him a moment.

"Jask," he says, voice pressed. 

"Keep going," Jaskier pleads with a small gasp. "Fuck, feels _good_." 

Geralt grunts and draws back a little before thrusting back in, working himself in deeper bit by bit. His fingers are digging into his hips, no doubt leaving bruises, and he groans when he finally bottoms out. He's buried so deep and Jaskier feels so fucking full, and it's enough to make him feel like he's coming apart at the seams, pleasure burning him up from the inside. 

Geralt leans over him, kisses his neck, then bites at the curve. "Breathe," he instructs, and Jaskier sucks in a breath, stutters when Geralt rolls his hips. 

"Geralt," he whines, and Geralt hums and starts thrusting, slow at first, before he straightens up, starts fucking Jaskier harder. The bed creaks under them, and Jaskier turns his face into the pillow, his moans and cries muffled. Each thrust makes pleasure spark up his spine, coil deep in his gut.

And then suddenly he's tugged up and back, Geralt's strong arms wrapped tightly around him, and he ends up sprawled over Geralt's lap with a gasped whimper. Geralt grunts and thrusts up into him sharply, jostling Jaskier.

"Let me hear you," he says, nipping at Jaskier's neck and holding him tight against him. "Want to hear you, Jask."

He grabs Jaskier by the hips again, guiding him up and down as he rocks up, mouthing at his neck, and Jaskier keens. He reaches back and curls one arm around Geralt's neck, fists his fingers in his hair, and grabs Geralt's arm with his free hand, nails digging into skin.

"Yes," Geralt groans.

"Geralt. _Geralt_ ," Jaskier babbles mindlessly, and Geralt moans into his skin, his thrusts becoming sharp and sloppy. 

Jaskier feels the pressure of his orgasm build, feels it start low in his belly, and when Geralt wraps a hand around his cock, tugs him hard, once, twice, it crashes over him. He comes with a cry, spilling over Geralt's hand and his own belly and chest. Geralt groans and he comes moments later, hot and sticky inside of Jaskier, rocking up into him until his movements become slow, lazy, and then taper off. 

Jaskier rolls his head against Geralt's shoulder, lifts his chin up, and Geralt's mouth finds his in a deep, breathless kiss. 

They untangle slowly, Jaskier feeling boneless and fucked-out, and he collapses onto the bed in a heap, uncaring about how dirty they both are. Geralt curls up with him and pulls him close, arranges him so Jaskier is sprawled against his side, head on Geralt's shoulder. 

Jaskier sniffs and turns his face up to nuzzle Geralt's neck, exhausted and sated.

"I really do love you. So much," he says, words a little slurred. Geralt tightens his arms around him.

"Sleep, Jask," he murmurs, and Jaskier thinks he can hear the smile in his voice.

*

Jaskier doesn't usually worry when Geralt goes off to fight a monster. A lot of them don't stand a chance against him. And Jaskier has this steadfast belief in Geralt's abilities—has had that since day one and Geralt has proven him right over and over ever since. He always comes out victorious. And he always comes back to Jaskier. Even when he comes back hurt, there's this tiny voice in Jaskier's head that insists that he'll be alright. That Geralt is invincible, because anything else—the thought of a world without Geralt in it—is unfathomable. 

But sometimes, when Geralt makes Jaskier stay behind because the contract is too dangerous and then doesn't come back when he said he would, worry gnaws at Jaskier's stomach. And as the hours drag on worry slowly turns into fear.

Today is one of those days. Geralt left their little camp early this morning, when the sky was still murky gray, the sun just starting to rise, and promised to be back by noon. Jaskier stayed behind; he set up snares and gathered more firewood, worked on a new song. He watched the sun climb higher and higher in the sky, reach its peak and start to move lower again. Geralt didn't return at noon and time dragged on and Jaskier started worrying, his stomach started twisting.

It's late afternoon now and he's still alone in the clearing with Roach. 

"He's okay. He'll be back soon," Jaskier says, giving Roach a tight smile. She neighs and shifts, as restless as Jaskier feels. 

Jaskier picks up the last apple from his pack and goes to feed it to Roach, stroking her neck.

"Shh, girl. It's okay. He always comes back to us, remember? Nothing can defeat our witcher," he murmurs, not sure if he's trying to reassure her or himself. 

Roach calms a little and Jaskier smiles gently. "Good girl," he says. 

The sound of a snapping twig makes him freeze. Roach, too, has perked up at the noise, flicking her ears. There's another sound, some rustling and heavy steps.

Jaskier holds his breath, trying to stay quiet, and reaches down to pull his dagger out of his boot. It can't be Geralt, because he barely makes any sounds even when he isn't deliberately trying to be quiet.

But the figure that comes stumbling out through the trees is Geralt. He can barely keep himself upright, face impossibly pale, and he's got a hand clutched to his stomach, slick with thick, crimson blood.

"Geralt," Jaskier exclaims, dropping his dagger as he rushes to his side. 

"'m fine," Geralt says, the voice slurred and pained, and Jaskier carefully guides him to a large tree close to their camp, grunting under his weight. 

"Of course, dear," he says quietly, even though he can tell Geralt is very far from okay. He can barely stay upright and there's blood—so much blood.

Jaskier helps him sit down gently, and Geralt hisses and grunts in pain.

"Let me see," he says and crouches down. Geralt keeps his hand pressed to the wound on his stomach.

"Potion. Stitches," he grits out, and Jaskier knows what it means. Geralt won't remove his hand until Jaskier has everything to stop the flow of blood quickly, because it's _bad_. 

Jaskier nods sharply, his stomach twisting. "I'll get everything," he says. 

His hands are shaking, but he tries to stay calm, tries to focus on what he needs to do and not think about the fact that Geralt is bleeding out. He grabs one of their waterskins, gets needle, thread, and a clean cloth from their packs and then sifts through Geralt's potions. 

"Come on, come on," he mutters, getting a little frantic as he riffles through the different bottles. He finds Swallow, but not Kiss—only an empty vial with barely more than a drop left.

"Damn you, Geralt," he mutters, feeling his eyes start to burn.

He takes a deep breath, blinking the tears away as he gathers everything and returns to Geralt's side. 

"You're out of Kiss," he says quietly as he opens Swallow and brings the vial to Geralt's lips. Geralt looks at him with something akin to pity and sadness as he swallows.

"No. _No_ ," Jaskier grits out. "It doesn't matter. I'll patch you up." 

"Jaskier," Geralt grunts.

"Shut up," Jaskier snaps and he can't stop the tears now. He presses his hand on top of Geralt's, feels the warm, slick blood, and closes his eyes to compose himself, knows he can't stitch Geralt up if he can't see through the tears. He tips his head forward, rests his forehead against Geralt's temple.

"Shut up," he repeats quietly, trembling. His hand feels warm, tingling, the sensation spreading up his arm and briefly Jaskier wonders if he's going into shock, if he's going to faint like some weak damsel while Geralt dies. Then Geralt sucks in a loud breath.

"Geralt?" Jaskier pulls back and wipes his wet eyes with his arm. 

"I'm okay," Geralt says, his voice stronger, and he gives Jaskier a small smile. 

"Is the potion helping?" Jaskier asks hopefully. "We'll get the armor off and then I need you to pull your hand away, okay? I'll clean the blood away so I can see the wound better, and then I'll stitch you up." 

"Yeah," Geralt says. "It's okay, Jaskier. I'll be fine." 

Jaskier nods and bites his lip. He starts working the buckles open, helps Geralt out of the ruined armor, while Geralt keeps his hand on the wound. When that's done, Jaskier grabs the waterskin and cloth and gets it wet.

"Okay, hand off the wound," he instructs, and when Geralt pulls his hand away, Jaskier pulls the shirt up and pours some water over the wound.

He frowns. "It doesn't look that bad," he murmurs and carefully dabs around it with the cloth. It's a long gash and it doesn't look _great,_ but the bleeding looks sluggish, like the blood flow is already slowing down.

"It's not," Geralt agrees quietly.

Jaskier glances up. "Thank Gods you heal so quickly," he says, his voice thin, and grabs the needle and thread. "Hold still, okay?"

Geralt hums, and Jaskier feels a little calmer now, calm enough for his hands to remain steady as he stitches up the wound. Geralt's shirt is soaked in blood, the leather of his pants slick with it, but when Jaskier finishes, the wound looks okay, neatly stitched up.

"Not even that bad," he says with a forced smile and looks up. Geralt is watching him, expression somber but soft.

"Yeah," he says. "You did good, Jaskier." 

Jaskier feels his lower lip start to tremble and he nods, leaning in to press a quivering kiss to Geralt's mouth.

"Let me help you clean up and change, and then you're going to lay down," he says, stopping when a thought occurs. "The wyvern?" 

"Dead."

"Good," Jaskier says. 

*

Jaskier waits until Geralt has drifted off before he starts cleaning up himself. His hands are covered in Geralt's blood and his clothes are splattered and smeared with it. He doubts his shirt can be saved, so he gets it wet and uses it to scrub himself clean as best as he can. He can't get all of the blood out from under his nails and he stares at his fingers when he's done, shoulders shaking as he tries not to cry again, to stay quiet so Geralt can sleep.

He changes into clean clothes and then goes to lie down with Geralt, curling up against his side carefully. For once, Geralt is the one closest to the fire, Jaskier's back to the line of trees, and he makes sure Geralt's swords are within reach before he tucks his face against Geralt's arm and waits for the panic in his gut to ebb away and his heartbeat to return to normal.

*

Geralt is awake when Jaskier wakes up the next morning, lying on his side and looking at Jaskier. It takes a moment for the sleep to clear from Jaskier's mind, for the memories of what happened the day before to return.

He pushes himself up and looks down at Geralt, tucking a dirty strand of hair behind his ears and touching his cheek. 

"How are you feeling?" 

"Good."

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. "Promise? No lying and gritting your teeth to put up a brave front." 

"I'm fine. Just a little sore," Geralt says and slowly sits up as well. His movements are a little stiff, but he doesn't look like he's in pain.

"Good enough to travel?"

"Yeah." 

Jaskier hums. "Great. So that means you're good enough for me to yell at you," he says curtly. "You absolute _idiot_! You careless, stupid asshole. How the fuck can you go fight something when you've run out of a potion like Kiss? Do you _want_ to die?" 

"Jaskier." 

"I'm not done," Jaskier interrupts sharply. "Be glad you got hurt yesterday or I'd be slapping some sense into you right now! I swear, Geralt, if you _ever_ do that again, I'm going to pack my things and be gone. I know what you do is dangerous and I know that I might one day have to watch you die, but you are not allowed to be fucking careless! You're supposed to do everything you can to always come back to me. I love you, Geralt, I love you so fucking much, but I will not stick around and watch you be so fucking reckless."

"Jaskier, I'm sorry," Geralt says, reaching for him, but Jaskier shrugs his touch off.

"Don't be sorry. Just fucking promise me it won't happen again," he says. "Your life might not mean much to you, but it means everything to me. And I can't stand… I just can't stand it, okay?" 

"Okay," Geralt says quietly. "I promise." 

Jaskier sniffs. "Good," he says and then he leans in and hugs Geralt, burying his face in the curve of his neck. "Asshole." 

Geralt hums and kisses his temple, wraps his arms around Jaskier.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and if Jaskier didn't feel so fucking heartbroken he would gloat over the fact that he got Geralt to apologize not just once, but twice. 

He sniffs again, trying not to cry, and Geralt shushes him, runs a thumb over the side of his neck.

"I love you, too, Jaskier," he says, so quietly Jaskier barely hears it. 

Geralt doesn't say the words a lot, rarely ever. Jaskier's come to accept it, knows Geralt loves him and shows him each and every day in his own way, just by being with him, taking care of him. 

Jaskier trembles and clutches Geralt a little more tightly.

*

Jaskier puts his lute and pack down and throws a nervous glance at Geralt, eyes traveling down to Geralt's stomach. He checked the wound this morning and it's healing perfectly, barely more than a pink line now. 

But Geralt has been acting off these past two days, since the incident with the wyvern. He's been more quiet—which says a lot since it's _Geralt_ —and Jaskier has caught him looking at him more than once, his expression thoughtful. When they got into town just now, Geralt didn't even bother checking out the notice board, just headed straight to an inn and got them a room. He doesn't look like he's in pain, but Jaskier still can't help but worry.

Geralt sits down at the small table in their room, looking uncomfortable.

"Geralt?" Jaskier prompts.

Geralt hums and then grimaces. "We need to talk."

Jaskier's stomach drops. "Right. Yeah, okay," he stutters and doesn't move for a couple of seconds. Geralt nods at the empty chair and Jaskier lets out a nervous laugh and goes to sit down.

"What's going on?" he asks, trying to keep his tone light.

Geralt looks uncomfortable. 

"Geralt, is it your wound? Do you need a healer?" Jaskier asks. "Please tell me before I work myself into a fit and freak out. You know I'm awfully good at that."

There's a moment of silence and Jaskier feels dread settle heavily in his belly, all the horrible, heartbreaking things Geralt could possibly say to him running through his head all at once.

"You're part elven, Jaskier," Geralt says. 

Jaskier stares at Geralt, who looks completely serious, and snorts. "I know I complain about your lack of humor sometimes, but this is ridiculous. I've been out of my mind with worry for the past two days," he huffs. 

"I'm not making a joke," Geralt says slowly.

"I think I would know if I was elven," Jaskier snarks. 

"I always suspected. And Vesemir could tell, too, the moment he met you," Geralt says and Jaskier's stomach drops, because Geralt is serious. He wouldn't drag a joke out like this, wouldn't make a joke like this to begin with.

"Geralt. That's ridiculous," Jaskier says quietly. "I'm not… why would I… why would _you_ think that?" 

"Filavandrel said something that made me think. He could tell. It's not very obvious, but once you know it kinda is," Geralt says. "You're barely aging, Jaskier. And… my wound the other day was bad. I wasn't sure I was going to make it. The potion helped, but that wasn't it. It was you. You did something. I felt it and my medallion vibrated, too. You used magic to heal me."

For once, Jaskier isn't sure what to say. He just stares at Geralt and shakes his head, trying to make sense of what Geralt is saying. 

"Jaskier," Geralt says quietly and reaches for his hand.

"How long have you known?" Jaskier asks.

Geralt shrugs. "For certain? I'm not sure." 

"How long have you suspected, then?" Jaskier prods. He feels like his head is spinning and it doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. Except maybe it does, now that he thinks about it, and how could he not have _known_?

"Since we met."

Jaskier swallows and pulls his hand away from Geralt's. He gets up.

"I need to go clear my head," he says. "It's just… a lot. I'll be back, okay?" 

"Jaskier," Geralt says, voice quiet and pleading, and Jaskier wants to rush to his side and offer comfort, make that helpless look on his face go away because Geralt _never_ looks at him like that. But he can't. His throat feels tight, like he can't breathe, and he just needs to get some air, needs to think about what Geralt said.

He turns and leaves, and Geralt doesn't try to stop him.

*

The town isn't huge, but there's a fair amount of people out in the streets. Jaskier ducks into a quiet alley and heads for the outskirts of town, away from the town square. 

He regrets that he didn't take his lute so he could find a quiet place to sit and play, let the music calm him down while he works through the countless thoughts in his head.

The thing is, it's not _bad_. And maybe it's not even that surprising, because it's not like he shared a close bond with his parents. Jaskier was talked at and yelled at more often than he was talked to, and of course his family would have a secret that they never shared with him. Just one more way to fuck him over, even after he's done everything he could to remove himself from their lives.

And being part elven isn't horrible. He doesn't _really_ know what it means for him, but he apparently has all the time in the world to figure it out and there are worse things he could be. The idea that he did something, used some kind of _magic,_ to fix Geralt is both amazing and utterly terrifying and Jaskier isn't sure how he feels about it. 

But the fact that he's barely aging? Well, Jaskier has never been too keen on the thought of growing old and weak, of his lifespan coming to an end while Geralt's doesn't. Of not being able to keep up with Geralt one day, of being left behind. The witchers of Kaer Morhen are more of a family than his own has ever been and maybe, now, Jaskier isn't quite as startlingly different from them than he thought he was. 

But Jaskier always thought he knew who he was and it turns out he had no idea and it makes him feel a little lost. He isn't the human traipsing around with a witcher. He's a part-elf who has no idea who he is and what that means.

Jaskier kicks some pebbles on the path in front of him and sighs. 

He rubs a hand over his face. 

The jumble of thoughts doesn't feel much clearer than it did when he left the inn. And the one person who can help him figure things out, who knows at least a little about what this means for him, is the person he ran away from like a _fool._

Jaskier turns around and heads back.

Geralt is still sitting at the table when Jaskier returns to their room, holding himself stiffly and watching Jaskier with wary, guarded eyes.

"I should have told you sooner," he says.

Jaskier halts and huffs, throwing up his hands. "Well, yes. You should have," he says and then adds quietly, "Why didn't you?"

"I knew you had some elven blood, but I wasn't sure if it meant anything at all," Geralt says, and Jaskier thinks for the first time since they've met Geralt looks _small_. "I've learned not to hope for things."

Jaskier knows the feeling of heartbreak, but he thinks his just _shattered_ at Geralt's quiet admission.

"Oh," he says and then he moves, takes the few steps towards Geralt and climbs onto his lap, wrapping his arms around him and tucking his face into the curve of his neck. " _Geralt_."

Geralt's arms wrap around him, keeping him steady. 

"Jaskier," Geralt murmurs. "I'm not sure the chair can hold us both." 

Jaskier sniffles and laughs. "Is this a dig at my perfectly fine weight again, witcher?" he asks, and when he tries to slide off Geralt's lap, Geralt holds on to him more tightly.

*

"If you want to go see your parents," Geralt offers that night. His hand slips under Jaskier's shirt, fingers skimming over his belly.

Jaskier snorts and presses back into Geralt's warmth. "That's the last thing I want."

"They might have answers." 

"No answers would be worth having to spend time with them," Jaskier replies bitterly. "You're sure, right?" "Yes," Geralt says and kisses his shoulder.

Jaskier exhales and nods. "I'm not sure how I feel about the magic thing. I don't think I like it. Magic can be great, but it can also be so awful."

Geralt sighs. "Until a few days ago I was sure you didn't have any. You've never done anything like that before, not when I was around," he says. "I don't think it's very strong, Jask." 

"Okay." 

"We can go find a mage, see what they say. See if they can help you. Or we can go find Filavandrel or other elves," Geralt suggests.

"Maybe. I… I don't know if I'm ready for that. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready. Would--would that be okay?" 

"Whatever you want, Jask," Geralt says and presses his hand against Jaskier's belly more firmly, holding him against him.

"Maybe it was just a one-time thing. Maybe it'll never happen again," Jaskier muses.

"Hmm."

Jaskier lets out a breath. "You know I don't mind that I'm aging more slowly, right? That part isn't bad." 

"No?" 

"Well. It just means I'll be around to annoy you for a long, long time, right? That's not bad," Jaskier says lightly. He rests his hand over Geralt's and taps it. "It's nice to know I won't age and die long before you do."

Geralt is quiet, but he feels relaxed against Jaskier.

Jaskier smiles. "Do Eskel and Lambert know?" 

"Don't think so." 

"Ha. I can't wait to tell them," Jaskier says. "Maybe I'll write a song about it. About a witcher who fell in love with a human who was part elf. About the human the witchers of Kaer Morhen could never get rid of." 

"Jaskier," Geralt says and he sounds so quiet, so _relieved_.

"What is it, dear? Surely if you've known I'm aging slowly, you've figured that out already. You've never been able to get rid of me; that's not going to change."

Geralt hums. "I get to keep you." 

Jaskier huffs out a laugh and twists around in his embrace. It's too dark for him to see much of anything and the kiss lands off-center, on Geralt's chin. 

"Always," he promises.

**Author's Note:**

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